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Enjolras buried his nose into the soft and slightly textured fabric as he wrapped the warm scarf around his nose of ice. He could feel the icy fingers of cold nipping (however cliché that thought might be) at his face and the bone deep chill seeping into his fingers.
“How do you stand this, R?” His voice was muffled by the scarf, and the hat pulled down over his head sent his springing curls everywhere in his eyes. There was a laugh and then gloriously warm hands shifted the hair from his eyes and beautiful blue eyes met his gaze.
“Hi,” he mumbled from behind a mouthful of scarf.
“Hi there.” Grantaire’s eyes crinkled beautifully when he smiled and Enjolras felt an answering smile stretch his face in response. but with the answering smile came the taught stretch of his frozen skin and he found an involuntary shudder wracking his body as he burrowed closer into the warmth of the fabric around him.
“Where did you grow up again?” the question was teasing, but Enjolras could now hear the underlying worry. He had learned, over the months, of Grantaire’s insecurity, the fear that worried at his heels, the dark moods that threw him off balance; but there was also his sensitivity, his innate kindness. They were all part of the man (and he could admit this in the sanctuary of his mind) that Enjolras loved.
He snapped back to attention at the hand waving in front of his face. Grabbing was hard with the oversized mittens that slid over his skin (perhaps the insides were cashmere he found himself pondering in a distant part of his mind), but he managed to grab the strong fingers which immediately wrapped themselves around his hand.
“How do you stand it?” he asked again, bringing the hand up to examine the bare skin. Grantaire’s grin was sharp and white.
“It’s barely fifteen degrees, Enjolras. This is nothing.”
“It most certainly is something.” Enjolras sunk further into the scarf fabric and the down jacket under his red pea coat. “It’s freezing.”
The ungentlemanly snort from his side (blocked by curls and fabric) had to be Grantaire, but the nudge that sent him stumbling came from the other side accompanied by rowdy laughter had to be Bahorel.
“You guys were taking so long, Eponine sent me to see if you had frozen to death and Grantaire was dragging your icicle corpse to the house.”
“It hasn’t been that long, Bahorel.” If his voice sounded snippy, that was merely due to the freezing cold of icy doom that surrounded them.
He turned around so that he could get a better look at his friend. For some reason (probably the hat and hair), it felt like he was an old carthorse wearing side blinders. He finished his turn and stared at the sight before him. Bahorel was wearing basketball shorts. Bahorel was wearing neon pink basketball shorts with gold and red flames along the bottom. Bahorel was insane.
“Aren’t you cold?” he demanded.
Bahorel snorted. “It’s only fifteen degrees, Enjolras. I know for a fact it gets colder than that in your fancy windy city. Why are you wrapped up like an Eskimo?”
“Because it’s cold,” Enjolras stressed. “You’re going to catch your death dressed like that.” Bahorel shrugged and pointed to the lumpy knitted scarf that is a shocking shade of red—even more so that Enjolras’s coat.
“Nah, it’s fine. Lissy made me a scarf, see? By the power of her love, I cannot get sick!” He struck a funny pose, flexing his muscles and Enjolras shook his head as Grantaire laughed by his side.
“For serious, though, 'Ponine’s gonna get annoyed if you guys don’t come in soon. She’s managed to nab her mom’s Super Secret Eggnog recipe and make it better.”
“Eggnog? Oh man, let’s go!” Grantaire was like an overexcited puppy, dancing around Enjolras as he dragged him into Eponine’s apartment. The building stank of something and the musty reminder of mold. Enjolras wrinkled his nose as they walked down the hall and then burst through her door (better constructed than all the others they had passed).
A loud cheer greeted them and it was not hard to tell that everyone had had a little eggnog before their arrival. Bahorel let out a cheery, “you bastards!” before being handed a glass and chugging it down. From there, it was a bit of a happy chaos as good friends and better alcohol were wont to do. Enjolras watched the happy mess of people in front of him and felt warmth bloom in his heart.
Grantaire, laughing, pulled him into the crowd, pressing a warm mug into his hands. “Here, darling,” he cooed. “Try some of this—it’ll warm you up.”
It did, but maybe it also had something to do with the arm around his shoulder, Grantaire tucking his stock frame against Enjolras’s side. Whatever it was, it was good, Enjolras thought as cinnamon and nutmeg danced on his tongue.
**
“Hold my hand,” said Grantaire, “I’ll warm you up.”
“That’s not the only thing he’ll warm up,” hooted Bossuet from ahead of them, wrapped in a mutant, giant scarf with Joly as they laughed together.
Enjolras blushed as he felt one callused thumb brush against the back of his hand and held on tighter.
The commotion ahead of them stopped and then restarted louder than before as Bossuet’s side of the scarf managed to unwind itself and trip said person, creating a domino effect of their friends in front of them.
Cosette, following sedately behind, arm-in-arm with Marius, snapped a picture.
**
Enjolras woke up and groaned. Already he could feel the prickling on his nose and without a second thought he buried his head back into the pillow, shifting slightly to gain some friction inside the heated pocket that was his sheets. There was a chuckle beside him; he ignored it.
There was another chuckle, deep and warm and what was that most delicious smell? His body reacted automatically, sitting up to grab at the steaming beverage that Grantaire was holding tantalizingly out of reach. As soon as the cold air enveloped him he regretted it. Slinking back into the sheets was a totally legit option, but then Grantaire pulled him forward, having placed the mug on the nightstand.
“Hey there, sleeping beauty.”
“Cold,” mumbled Enjolras against his chest. “Gimme the drink or lemme sleep.” He wrapped his arms around the warmth that was Grantaire. Twice the heat was even better.
“Come back to sleep with me,” he cajoled in a gurgle. The shaking of Grantaire’s laughter was his only reply as his limbs were gently plucked off and replaced under the blankets.
“A plumber’s job is never done. Mrs. Kittinger just called me—her husband tried to fix the sink and now it’s even more broken. She needs my help and I need her money.”
“I’ll pay you,” slurred Enjolras. Sleep was beginning to creep up on him, sending tendrils to deaden his arms and legs and drag him away from Grantaire. He blinked muzzily and opened his eyes to see Grantaire’s blinding grin.
“I’m not that kind of boy, darling,” he said before lips touched his forehead and Enjolras was lost to dreams.
When he woke up for real, there was a thermos sitting on the nightstand on his side of the bed (and a part of him quietly marveled that he had a side of the bed). Unscrewing it let the smell of cinnamon, coffee, and chocolate dance through his nose. Enjolras took a sip and smiled as the heat raced down through his body.
**
Grantaire grinned from where he was flopped over the couch like an indolent cat. At least, that’s what Enjolras guessed; he had wrapped the blankets snugly around him but they were also inhibiting his movement. He felt like a caterpillar in a giant blanket cocoon—warm but limited in movement. But—finally—he was a snug as a bug in a rug and warm despite the bitter cold and the snow that pattered lightly against the windows. It also helped that they were at Marius and Cosette’s in the single new addition that housed their wonderful cast iron woodstove that diffused delicious heat at the same rate and intensity as the summer sun. It was magnificent and E, a delicate blossom of the south as Grantaire sometimes joked, basked in its wonder and glory.
“You really are a cat,” said Cosette wonderingly from her perch on Marius’s lap. “I hadn’t believed Courfeyrac when he told me, but it’s true.” Enjolras was glad that the blankets mostly covered his face—he could then claim that it was the heat and not the mischievous teasing in her voice that made his cheeks flame as bright as his coat.
He felt the couch dip next to him and then familiar arms wrapped around him. “Don’t listen to her, my darling kitten,” Grantaire practically purred as he snagged Enjolras in his blanket burrito-cocoon and tugged him close. He bent down to murmur in Enjolras’s ears and suddenly it was not Cosette’s words that were the reason for his blush anymore. He snuggled deeper against Grantaire’s chest, and flopped like a fish until he was lying halfway on his laughing boyfriend. Despite his laughter, Grantaire’s arms tightened securely around Enjolras. The curve of where Grantaire’s shoulder met his neck looked very inviting and Enjolras bent his head into the crook of the neck provided before him. Slowly he felt his eyes flutter shut, gently like the snow wafting down outside, and let the warm, vibrating cadence of Grantaire’s voice, and heat, lull him off to the dreamlands.
**
“C’mere, you,” Grantaire said from the counter.
“And close the door, you’re letting the cold in,” called Floreal, ironically from her position in front of the open refrigerator.
Ignoring her, Enjolras shuffled up to Grantaire who grabbed his hands. There was a burning, tingling feeling that was different from the usual tingling that Enjolras felt when Grantaire touched him and then Grantaire dropped his hands with a yelp.
“You’re freezing! Didn’t you just take your mittens off?”
Enjolras glared at the offending pieces of clothing that had done nothing to protect him against the cold. “Yes,” he mumbled. But, desperately craving the bonfire of heat that was Grantaire’s hands, he found himself petulantly grabbing at them. “It’s not my fault,” he groused.
Grantaire gave him a quiet smile and that was the only warning Enjolras got before he was enveloped into a full contact body hug. His hands were guided to Grantaire’s armpits (the warmest part of the body his distantly noted), but his attention was wholeheartedly taken by the warm lips that breathed heat into his open mouth. He gasped into the kiss and as they parted, he felt Grantaire’s lips curl into a smirk against the delicate pulse point on his throat
“Let me warm you up.” Grantaire’s voice had lowered to a husky whisper before he continued on with his previous goal. Enjolras felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold slowly make its way up his spine. His toes curled…and so did his hands in Grantaire’s hair.
If he concentrated, he could hear Floreal’s sounds of disgust and the opening and closing of the door with the accompanying icy blast of air that heralded her departure, but Grantaire’s hands were beneath his sweaters and he was finally starting to feel warm.
**
“I like that you get cold easily,” Grantaire admitted, lazily reclining on the bed. “It makes me feel like you’re the best present ever for me to unwrap.” He cracked an eye open as he lounged, half covered by the flannel sheets. Enjolras, with the covers and quilt up to his neck, narrowed his eyes and as he considered the pros and cons of reaching out into the bitterly cold air to beat his boyfriend with a pillow. His mind decided, he moved.
Grantaire yelped and clutched at the sheets as Enjolras’s icy feet made their way up his thighs. “You sly devil,” he cried. “That’s not fair at all.”
Enjolras smirked before pulling his blankets up so he could roll on top of a suddenly breathless Grantaire.
“Forgive the cliché, but all’s fair in love and war,” he said gazing down at him.
“You monster,” Grantaire chuckled, his fingers already creeping and curling into Enjolras’s hair.
Enjolras raised the covers and pulled them over their bodies, trapping them in a pocket of heat.
“Oh, really? Do tell me more,” he breathed in the darkness of the blankets.
Grantaire did in great detail.